


I wanna hold your hand (and take down the world)

by thursday_kat



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, reference to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursday_kat/pseuds/thursday_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A job gone south, two men, one set of handcuffs and ten bullets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wanna hold your hand (and take down the world)

**Author's Note:**

> So happy that I got to write fic for in1712's lovely artwork! Go find it [here](http://in1712.livejournal.com/2265.html) . And many, many thanks to Lea and Tim for the beta work - you were both fabulous!

They come out of the dream handcuffed together. Jacobson’s chair is empty; Arthur can only assume that he’s jumped ship, and the two goons that are standing over them are more muscle than anything else. 

“The fuck?” Eames says, tugging on the handcuffs and therefore Arthur’s hand.

“No moving,” the brawnier of their two minders says, waving his gun around threateningly.

Arthur tugs on the cuffs slightly. It's a quick, coded pattern that means Stop, Look and Listen and he hopes that Eames is paying attention. Arthur thinks that it’s pretty tragic that this exact scenario has happened enough times that it requires an agreed upon code. 

Eames seems to get the message, however, as he flexes his fingers once and then stops fidgeting. Mr Meathead seems to think that he’s sufficiently cowed them, because his attention flips to the argument currently taking place in the adjoining room. 

The job had seemed like a simple enough affair: in and out of a mind that knew what was coming. It should have been the break they needed from the crazy that has dogged their heels since Inception. 

They were supposed to be helping a Mr James Frost determine the resting place of a much cherished, antique and likely quite valuable locket. 

“It’s my grandmum’s,” Mr James Frost had told them, over coffee, “and there is a picture of my mum inside it, when she was only a small child. After the fire, well, there’s not much left.” The locket had been loaned to his mum’s friend, the beloved and respected Eleanor Greenfield, who had worn it to a soiree and then promptly lost it.

Arthur considered himself a decent judge of character, though he knew that he has his blind spots. Who else would have willingly followed Dom Cobb down into that particular rabbit hole if not for misplaced friendship and affection? But James Frost and Eleanor Greenfield had not set off any alarms for Eames either, and for Arthur that, combined with weeks of research, was good enough. 

Arthur is beginning to think that there will never be enough information. And if he thinks about it too long he might just give himself a complex.

As it turns out, Jacobson has not fled the scene after all. In fact, he seems to be in a far worse position than Arthur and Eames are, considering that he has a gun actually pressed against his head. He’s shaking, Arthur can see the tremors from here, and though he can’t make out what Jacobson is saying, he can tell that the man is pleading. The exact words don’t matter, Arthur’s seen enough men going belly up to understand what’s happening. 

Turning just slightly, he makes eye contact with Eames, rolling his eyes as the tone of Jacobson’s voice arches up into something more like a screech. Eames, for his part, shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, “Eh, what do you expect from him."

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t agree, but he had really thought that Jacobson was smart enough to realize that things didn’t go well for anyone who had the temerity to sell his team out. Jacobson has a bit of a reputation, sure, but so does nearly every other extractor. Dream share, with its flexible boundaries and grey-tinged morality, attracts all types of people. But Jacobson had seemed less of a crazy, maniacal, megalomanic than the average extractor out there, so he’d taken a chance on the man. 

Never again, he decides, then and there. He will do everything he can to make sure that he doesn’t have to work with incompetent, double-crossing assholes ever again.

He is fantasising about the joys of working with those you know and trust when the tone of the argument changes and a new voice is added to the increasing din in the adjacent room. 

Arthur nearly has an aneurysm when there are suddenly two James Frosts in the room - shouting at one another across Jacobson’s kneeling body. The man with the gun is no longer pressing it against Jacobson’s head and while he is still hovering over Jacobson, he too seems distracted by the fight. 

As if the handcuffs weren’t enough, they have now added a mysterious identical twin to the soap opera that this job has become. All Arthur needs is some overacting and terrible music and it would be ready for TV.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Eames says, his anger jangling the cuffs between them. There is a snarl to his words that sends a bit of a thrill up Arthur’s spine. Eames likes being wrong even less than Arthur does and the sight of dear sweet Eleanor Greenfield, standing next to the identical interloper with a not so sweet smile on her face and a gun in her hand, seems to be his limit as well. 

Arthur won’t lie, he likes it when Eames reaches the end of his very long fuse. The resulting fireworks are vastly entertaining.

First things first, though. It’s time to remove themselves from the situation. As it so happens, both Arthur and Eames are big believers in the judicious use of force to escape any dangerous situation.

The muscle twins are distracted by the ongoing argument, one that is getting louder by the minute, and the guns that had been pointed so resolutely at them have drifted off target. At this point, Arthur couldn’t care less about the details of the argument - that’s something he can ferret out later, when he needs to figure out who to punish, maim or kill. Right now, he and Eames need to take advantage of the distraction, because he’s got enough experience to know that things are likely only going to get worse.

A slight tug on the cuffs connecting them and Eames is tensed and ready. It’s been awhile since Arthur’s had to fight his way out of a conflict with nothing but his bare hands, but he knows that his training is still sound. Between Eames’ mean right hook and Arthur’s close combat skills, they should be able to take their minders down with little fuss, assuming that they can agree on enough things to work together.

With another minute nod, the pair of them practically fly off their chairs. The muscle twins, fully distracted now, can’t swing their guns around in time and it’s only a matter of a few seconds before Arthur and Eames are in possession of them. They're shitty, cheap pistols, as it turns out, and Arthur’s little gun loving heart sneers at the plebeian choice. He’s about to ridicule the two idiots for their poor choice in weapons but Eames pistol whips the one closest to him before he can get a word out. The guard goes down without a sound.

“You can write up an entire dissertation on your opinion regarding the weaponry of the lowly hired muscle in the underworld later, Arthur. I do believe that I’m currently winning in the down and out count.”

It takes nothing more than a few beautiful, one handed jabs and his personal minder has joined his friend on the floor. It is a stroke of luck that the group in the room next door hasn’t noticed them yet, though even as Arthur is thinking it, Jacobson is swiveling his head around.

“They’re getting away,” he nearly screams, and there is a tremor of sadistic pleasure in his voice as he says it. Weasly little bastard. If he gets the chance, Arthur is going to really enjoy teaching him a thing or two about sadistic pleasure.

“Your bloodlust is showing again, love, let's leave it for later yeah?” 

Of course Eames is right, and in a matter of seconds they are skidding through the house, still cuffed and holding their cheap pistols tightly. Arthur had the presence of mind to grab the PASIV from its resting spot and it bangs against his left leg as they go.

The estate, a sprawling, multi-storied thing, had been largely empty when they had arrived an hour ago, but from the shouts and the gunshots ringing behind them the place seems to have become positively lively.

“Bathroom?” Arthur queries, even as he’s tugging Eames in and slamming the door shut behind them and sliding the flimsy lock. The room is actually fairly small and the window is even tinier. 

“Lovely choice, Arthur, quite perfect,” Eames mutters, tugging aside the lacy curtain to look down on the roof of the sunroom half a dozen feet below. 

“I know that you’ve memorized the layout, same as I did, and I also know that you know that this is the only jump from this floor that we could possibly make without risking an escape-ending injury.” 

Eames shrugs and pulls the curtain from its rod, dropping it with a clatter on the floor behind them. Arthur elbows him out of the way to take a closer look at the window. The pane slides up soundlessly but the screen won’t budge. A moment's look shows that the old screens have been replaced by heavy duty security screens, the new screws shiny and striped in the metal frame. 

“Of course,” Arthur says, because now is not the time for the rant that’s clogging up his throat. Fucking extractors and their double-crossing fuck-ups and their disrespect for good work. 

The screen might be new but the wood around it is not. As Eames pushes on it, the wood flexes slightly.

“Keep pushing,” Arthur tells Eames, reaching out towards the small vanity that lines the wall. It is largely empty and unused, but there is a small metal nail file hiding in the back of one drawer. 

“Oh goodie, MacGyver time,” Eames says with no small amount of glee. For reasons that Arthur refuses to acknowledge, his ability to turn small worthless objects into items that dismantle and or destroy things gives Eames no small amount of pleasure. It’s not one of those things that they talk about, but Arthur has been known to get creative, when he’s given the chance, just to see that particular smile on Eames’ face.

Now, of course, is not a time for putting on a show detailing all the creative things you can do with dryer lint and metal shavings. Now is the time to get the fuck out of dodge so that you can save your sorry hide, figure shit out and then come back and show the bastards exactly what you can do to those lovely metal filings in their teeth.

They are almost through the screen when the people chasing them catch up. In a fit of rage, Arthur puts two bullets through whomever was on the other side. It only makes Eames grin wider.

“I’m up one now,” Arthur says.

“And down two bullets,” Eames replies, “whereas I still have all six.”

Arthur takes them out the window a little roughly and they land awkwardly on the hot roof of the sunroom. Behind them, Arthur hears the bathroom door go down. 

“Ready?” Eames asks, swinging their joined arms between him as he shakes his arms out. 

Arthur checks the safety on his gun and nods. He grips the PASIV tighter because he’ll be damned if he loses that in addition to his payout. 

A bullet wings past them as they drop over the edge.

“Motherfucker,” Eames gasps as they struggle from the bushes, “Did you have to drop on me?”

“Look asshole, my options were limited.” Arthur’s not about to say that it was a miscalculation on his part. This whole operation is looking to be a miscalculation and he’s not taking on any more responsibility than he needs to. Also, jumping off of roofs, whilst chained to another person and trying to avoid wrenching anyone’s arm out of its socket is not the easiest thing to do in the first place. So far, they are still whole and mostly hale. 

The hale part is looking a bit sketchy though, if they don’t get their asses in motion.

“You can bitch at me later,” Arthur says as he tugs Eames up, “but right now we need to get a move on.”

The next hurdle is crossing the yard. The house is a proper old fashioned British set up, rose gardens, shrub lined paths and all. There is no cover for a good fifty yards. 

There are people yelling, and there are guns going off, and all Arthur can figure is that they haven’t totally pissed off the karmic balance in the world because they make it to the small stand of trees and out of the direct line of sight of their pursuers with nary a scratch. 

It’s less than a mile to the road on the other side of the trees and they take off in a loping jog.

“I can’t win." Arthur says it out loud, because it’s one of those things that he feels the need to tell the universe. “Dom Cobb is the reverse King Midas, everything he has ever touched has turned to shit.”

Next to him, Eames tsks. “He’s an easy man to blame, but I doubt he’s responsible for this catastrophe.”

“No, no, Eames, don’t take this away from me. Ever since the Fischer job, every job I’ve worked on has gone south. Chemists with wonky formulas. Leaked information. Marks who know we are coming. Every single damn time.”

“It’s just because everyone knows how brilliant we are now. Besides, how many times has this happened to us?” Eames muses, tugging Arthur’s hands up and over a small sapling. “I’m thinking that it’s a solid handful. Surely they can’t all be tied to Cobb.”

“Don’t be so sure. That first time was one time too many.”

“Was that Galapagos?”

“Galapagos? I would think that I would have remembered being handcuffed to you at the tortoise sanctuary!” Galapagos had actually been a Good Job, and Arthur was rather fond of tortoises as a result, their wise eyes and the very intent look on their faces when eating had only added to the pleasure of a job well done. Watching Eames nearly lose a finger to a hungry one when he wasn’t paying attention had only been the icing on the cake, really. “I think that you’re thinking of Cape Town.”

“I most certainly am not, we have never been handcuffed in Africa.” 

“I think you mean to say that we have never been handcuffed together in Africa. Regardless, the first time this happened was two weeks after we met for the second time. And we were in New Zealand.” The more Arthur thinks about it, the more he thinks that his bad luck is Eames shaped.

Eames, of course, laughs, because New Zealand was the epic fuck-up of all fuck-ups, and then he promptly trips over an exposed tree root, which in turn makes Arthur grin meanly and pull him down the slope towards the road.

There is no chance that two men, wielding guns and handcuffed together, are going to be able to hitch a ride, so they do the next best thing.

“I’m terribly sorry about this ma’am,” Eames says with all the smooth charm he can manage as Arthur more or less manhandles a middle aged soccer mom out of her car. She’s making a ruckus until the men that had been chasing them open fire. 

Arthur and Eames dive into the car, and Eames is still struggling over into his seat when Arthur takes off in a mad rush of squealing wheels and bullets.

“So,” Eames says as he flips through the radio stations, seemingly bored now that the immediate danger has passed, “twins.”

Arthur groans. “This job has given me a serious case of deja vu.”

“You are, I assume, referring to the Baltimore job. I thought that one involved triplets.” 

They had all been rather enamored of the triplets, a mismatched set of young, beautiful socialites that had, ultimately, planned on using the team to discredit each other. It had gotten convoluted and ugly and even Cobb had sworn off gigs for the rich and dissatisfied for awhile.

“Baltimore was screwed up in more ways than one, but no, I’m referring to the job in Vancouver. With the case of mistaken identity.”

“Right, the one where you mistakenly identified the wrong brother.”

“You do remember that that was one of those jobs that Cobb swore we could pull off in two days. As in, two days from start to finish.” Arthur takes a corner just a little too swiftly, just to watch Eames bang his head on the window. 

“Don’t get defensive,” Eames says, rubbing a hand against his temple, “Dom Cobb was a little too enamored of your newness at the time. Can’t blame the man for thinking everything you touched would come up roses.” Eames has the audacity to pat Arthur on the leg like he is a small, petulant child. As if he’s never made any grave mistakes. Arthur was there for Majorca, thank you very much.

“I will cut you,” Arthur promises meanly.

“Darling!” Eames sounds positively delighted. 

They don’t drive for too long, aware that the police will be on the lookout for them now. Stolen vehicles are often necessary but need to be jettisoned in a hurry. Especially if said vehicle was hijacked at gunpoint. They leave the car a few blocks from the water and wind their way through the streets. Arthur’s wrist is starting to sting from the friction of the cuff and he’s antsy from the constant contact.

They hole up outside of a derelict shipping office. Arthur is hot, he is cranky, and he has a burning desire to shoot someone. Even the knowledge that he and Eames escaped unscathed, and with the PASIV nonetheless, does little to calm his ire.

“Do you have your phone?” Arthur’s watching the streets, waiting to see where the next threat is going to come from, so he misses the eye roll. 

“You know that I never carry a phone on the job, Arthur.”

“And I know that’s a complete and utter lie Mr Eames. Though hopefully Jacobson and his cronies do not. Hand it over.”

“No please?” Eames is bent over, tugging his pant leg high enough to expose one hairy shin.

Arthur says nothing, just frowns at Eames’ grin, but the phone does end up in his outstretched hand. Tucking his shitty, stolen weapon into the back of his pants, he flips the thing open and dials the only useful number programed into the memory.

“Ariadne? We need assistance.”

He has to walk her through the process - it’s hardly her fault that Dom dropped her right into the building side of dream share without exposing her to the many other, often necessary, facets - but she manages to get them the time that the next boat will be leaving. Not an ideal situation, and Arthur really can’t think of anything worse than being stuck on a boat for god knows how many days, but at this point it’s their only option. Arthur feels rather like a snake without its fangs, at the moment. Or, at least that’s how Eames says it.

“You’re like a snake without its fangs.” Eames says, splitting his time between watching Arthur and watching the streets around them. “Or a tiger without its stripes. Or a fish out of water. You, without a phone or computer. I’m surprised that you haven’t had one permanently installed on your person.”

“A phone would be great but I’d rather have a decent gun and a bandolier. Also, I’d say that I’m more like an extremely angry man with only four bullets and a solid six people that need to be shot.”

“Well, between us we have ten, so unless your preternatural aim deserts you, I suspect you’ll be just fine.”

There is a commotion a block over, and both men stop and listen. Jacobson’s shrill voice is at the forefront and Arthur has the sudden insight that, whatever he thought he was getting into, this particular outcome wasn’t what he was hoping for.

“Look,” it seems that Jacobson has gotten to the point of pleading, “if you just let me make a few phone calls, we can get this sorted out. They’ll be easy to catch, I swear. They’ve probably already killed each other anyway.”

Arthur and Eames share a look. Despite everything, the snark, the casual meanness, the stubborn refusals to yield ground, they’ve worked together enough that at the end of the day, facing down yet another idiot with dreams of domination (or information or just of taking down the infamous team of Arthur and Eames), they know exactly what to do.

Ten bullets. Easily ten guys, most of whom look to be close cousins of the two meatheads that cuffed them together in the first place. Not great odds, but not the worst they’ve ever had either. Their boat is leaving in ten minutes, and if they want the chance to be on it, they’ve got some ass kicking to do. With a shared grin, they open fire.


End file.
